


A Delicate Condition

by ladyspock7



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley gets poetic in the heat of passion, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mood Swings, Mpreg, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Without Plot, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Strong Crowley (Good Omens), Unplanned Pregnancy, crankiness, lots of shouting at one point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29289354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspock7/pseuds/ladyspock7
Summary: Aziraphale has been feeling decidedly off for some days, and for the life of him he can't understand why, but it's driving both him and Crowley up the wall.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 178
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	A Delicate Condition

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that students of ancient history can forgive me, becasue I've been rather unfair to Aelius Galenus, also known as Galen of Pergamon. He really was a well-known physician and philosopher in the Roman Empire, but as to exactly what he wrote about, or how accurate it was in light of modern medical understanding, I have no idea. It's just that many years ago I read a novel "The Beacon at Alexandria" by Gillian Bradshaw, in which the protagonist, a woman secretly studying to be a doctor in Roman times, comes across a medical text claiming the gestation period for women is ten months, which of course she suspects is a bit too long...
> 
> Anyway. I can't find a copy of the book, and I can't remember which medical authority made that claim, so I've attached it to poor old Galenus, who may or may not have stated it. 
> 
> Credit to Neil Gaiman, who mentioned in a post somewhere that Aziraphale has memorized Winnie the Pooh. I love that. In my headcanon, so has Crowley.

Aziraphale's nipples were sore and it was driving him absolutely mad.

He lifted his suspender straps off his chest in an effort to find some relief for what felt like the twentieth time that day. He couldn't understand it. The wretched things were rubbing him raw, he couldn't adjust them in any way that didn't have his nipples throbbing within a minute.

Normally he wouldn't use a miracle to dispose of minor aches, and such a ridiculous one as this, but honestly. With an irritated huff, he snapped his fingers and the pain went away. Thank goodness.

He returned to the catalogue of the upcoming rare book auction in York to continue his perusal, though so far there weren't many volumes that caught his fancy, more's the pity, although... hang on, a first edition of _El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha_? Parts one and two, in the original Spanish, no less.

Intriguing. He hadn't read Don Quixote since it first came out, and he'd only gotten a hold of the English translation at the time, because it was right around the start of a veritable explosion of human literature and Aziraphale had happily spent a great deal of his free time, when he wasn't on Heaven's business or researching books of prophecy, during the ensuing centuries eating up the new novels, the latest sensation of the literary arts.

Don Quixote was a ripping good read, and undoubtedly even better in the original tongue.

He shifted a bit closer to read the fine print, and his suspenders scraped, absolutely scraped, right through his shirt. The throbbing started up again.

“Blast it,” he grumbled, pushing to his feet, pulling off his sweater and unbuttoning his waistcoat so he could shove the wretched suspenders off.

As he was twisting around to undo the buttons that attached them to his waistband, he realized he didn't have a belt. How was he supposed to keep his trousers from....oh. They seemed to be staying up all right.

He took a few steps back and forth across the carpeting. The weight gain was a blessing in disguise, then. He'd noticed the other day...yesterday? Last week, perhaps?...that it took just a bit more effort to get his trousers properly fastened, so maybe it was time to schedule an appointment with his tailor for a new fitting.

The thought irritated him. The energy needed to make the phone call, the break in his routine, the trek across town, made him sigh.

Odd, really. He liked the tailor, an aging widower who'd taken over the business from his uncle and who fawned over Aziraphale's vintage clothing. Normally going to a fitting produced a warm, happy glow within. Now it just made him tired.

Perhaps because planning the trip to York was taking up so much of his energy. They'd been discussing some of the sights they'd take in while they were in town, and Aziraphale wanted to participate in one of those nice walking tours of the old town, and Crowley wanted to not.

Aziraphale was certain Crowley would get some benefit from a guided tour if he would give it a chance, especially with the additional reward of visiting the pubs afterwards, but Crowley was, so far, sticking to his guns.

Aziraphale got the suspenders off his waistband and folded them up neatly to lay them on the side table and settled in at the desk again.

Peace and quiet descended once more, with only the ticking of the clock to note the passing of time, and Aziraphale's head nodded.

The bell above the door gave its familiar cheery ring, and Aziraphale jerked awake, horrifed at the distinctive feel of drool plastered onto his cheek. He scrabbled a handkerchief from his pocket as he heard Crowley's familiar step.

Too late. Crowley sauntered in just as Aziraphale was wiping the drool off.

“Nappin' again, eh?” Crowley dropped a kiss on his head, inhaled deeply of his hair, then took a quick nuzzle of Aziraphale's neck. “You sure you're not doing anything different? New lotion or something? Because you smell...and believe me, I hate to use the word...divine.”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Aziraphale said testily. “Would you kindly stop sniffing me.” He shoved at Crowley's shoulder. “Balm of Gilead, same as always, I can't abide that modern, greasy stuff. And I wasn't napping, I merely dozed off for a...what do you mean again?”

Crowley flung himself onto the couch, limbs akimbo. “You were asleep here yesterday, right at that very desk. Snoring and everything.”

“How absurd.”

“Oh, is it?” Crowley pushed some tiny button on his phone, and turned the little screen to show him a video recording of Aziraphale slumped over his desk, cheek squished against his folded hands. A soft rumble, barely audible, sounded from it.

“That's hardly a snore at all,” Aziraphale protested, his face burning. “Merely the---the gentle murmur of slumber.”

“You were so cute I made it my screenshot. See?”

Aziraphale refused to look at the phone getting waved in his face. Honestly, he could practically hear Crowley grinning.

“So proud of you, angel. Dozing off, taking naps whenever the mood strikes, sleeping through the night.”

“I am not!”

“You are. Five nights in a row, now. Should've come to the park, angel. It's gorgeous out.”

“Yes, well, some of us have work to do,” he said, and pressed his lips together. He sounded like an old record. Work, work, I've got work. But it was so blasted hard to think of witty rejoinders when these wretched, unsolicited naps filled his head with cobwebs and Crowley was absolutely unbearable in his glee.

The demon was back on the couch, busy with his phone, but managed to snort in such a way as to cast doubt on the entire concept of 'work' as it applied to retired angels.

“And besides, it's too hot,” Aziraphale snapped, feeling unnecessarily rankled.

“Pfft. Not compared to Egypt in high summer.”

Aziraphale stared at the book catalogue, but he couldn't read a word. He hadn't been sleeping that much, surely? Five nights in a row?

Good Lord, he needed to break this dreadful cycle that had clearly become a very bad habit. All this sleeping. He'd gotten much too used to it, and now his corporation craved it as it craved food. He would have to keep a check on it. Tonight he wouldn't bother going to bed at all, but would stay up and read through the quiet hours of darkness, just like he used to.

“What happened to your suspenders? They offend you?” Crowley asked. He briefly jerked his chin in the direction of the suspenders folded neatly on the side table. “Is it casual Tuesday?”

“Turns out I don't need them today.” He was not going to talk about his nipples. Might provoke some very unwelcome jokes.

\- - - - - - -

They shared tea up in the flat shortly afterwards, and it was Crowley's turn to make it, so Aziraphale simply needed to sit back and relax.

Normally it was one of Aziraphale's favorite times of day, but for some reason the tea didn't taste quite right, and his stomach was deciding to act up again so he could only nibble at the toast. “Are you sure this is Earl Grey?”

“Like it says on the tin.”

“It's not decaffeinated?”

“'Course not, it's regular.”

“Ah.” He took another sip. “Only the labels are so similar, and they're right next to each other at the store, are you sure that when you were at the shop that you didn't pick up the wrong...”

Crowley sighed and set down his cup. He snapped his fingers. The tin appeared in his hand. “See? Earl Grey. Regular. Oil of bergamot. Product of centuries of imperialism brought to your door.”

“Well, for all I know you've put some decaf in the tin,” Aziraphale snapped. The implication that he approved of imperialism rankled.

“You think I-” Crowley barked out a laugh without much humor. “I don't know which is worse, the accusation or the fact that you'd think I'd stoop to such a pathetic excuse of a prank.”

Azirphale sat back in his chair, struggling with the overwhelming feeling of betrayal. The tea just wasn't right, somehow.

Guilt over the unfair accusation he'd flung into Crowley's face formed a lump in his chest. Along with the nausea in his stomach, he could barely drink the terrible tea, but he managed a nibble of the toast.

Crowley was silently, determinedly sipping at his own cup, staring into the distance.

Aziraphale shifted his weight, forming the words of an apology in his head. “My dear, I...”

“You know what it is,” Crowley said abruptly. “The tea company. Bet you anything that quality's declined.”

Aziraphale straightened. There was some merit to Crowley's observation. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Some modern cost-cutting measures or something, saving a few bucks, putting out an inferior product.”

“Well, I never. I should write to them, give them a piece of my mind. Give me that canister, there must be an address on it. Ah, there it is.”

Crowley was grinning again, at ease. “You do that, angel. Ought to sue them for ruining our afternoon.”

“Oh, I wouldn't go that far, dear.”

\- - - - - -

At supper, his appetite deserted him entirely for no discernible reason.

He cut one of the ravioli in half, lifted the fork to his mouth, stared at it, then set it down again.

“Too much rosemary?” Crowley asked, gulping a ravioli and washing it down with a hearty swallow of wine with a speed that made Aziraphale's eyes water.

“No, no, it's fine,” he said. He stared at his plate with an odd sense of desperation, trying to find something that wasn't too horrible, at last settling on the garlic toast. He managed a nibble of the crust, which, fortunately, was free of seasoning.

It was so strange. Crowley was quite good at cooking Italian, and Aziraphale liked garlic. But tonight the odor of it was too strong, the clink of the utensils too loud, the normal coziness of the overhead light too overpowering.

The combined assault on his senses caused a headache to pulse at his temples.

Crowley sniffed and shrugged. “Be honest, angel. I can take it. I'm thinking I may have overdone it, a bit. Sauce tastes a little...” He twirled his fork in the air. “Pine-ish.”

Aziraphale stared at the fork making circles in the air, and shut his eyes as his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. He swallowed hard, forcing back dizziness, and seized upon the excuse. “Ah, the rosemary. Yes, perhaps it is a bit too much, my dear.”

Crowley practically inhaled another ravioli with an amount of marinara sauce that bordered on the obscene. “Yeah. Like a bloody pine forest.”

Aziraphale stared at his plate, pushing around the glop, wishing they could quit talking about the blasted rosemary because it was hard enough ignoring the nausea without Crowley nattering on about the food.

Crowley was waving his fork in the air again, making some sort of point about giving the herb garden in the windowbox a piece of his mind, and Aziraphale watched the utensil spin and whirl in miserable fascination, even as it made his stomach start to...

“I'm finished,” he announced, a little too loudly, and stood abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over. He grabbed his mostly-full plate and untouched wineglass to carry them over to the sink.

Crowley scraped his chair back. “Yeah, not my best effort. Want something else, angel? Could run out and get a curry.”

“No, no, that's quite all right. Please, don't bother.”

Aziraphale exhaled once, twice, until he felt the nausea ebb, and went to the washroom to freshen up. Washing his hands and face, brushing his teeth, soothed him, as it always did.

He examined his reflection. Why on earth was he so nauseous? Come to think of it, his appetite had been a bit off for...a week? Two weeks?

He could get sick from eating food that had gone bad, or drinking unsanitary water, but generally he could sense when a session of vomiting was imminent and head it off at the pass, as it were, with a miracle. He hadn't thrown up in three hundred years.

He wrinkled his nose. Nasty business, vomiting. He miracled the small portion of food in his stomach into nothingness, and went out to join Crowley in the sitting room.

\- - - - - -

Tonight _Upstart Crow_ was being broadcast in its entirety, and he was looking forward to seeing it start to finish.

But he fell asleep before it started, and woke up in time to see the last of the end credits scrolling past.

Crowley snored next to him, arms flung out, head lolling across the back of the sofa.

Aziraphale nudged him sharply. “You should have woken me up.”

Crowley grunted and lifted his head, squinting against the light. “Time izzit?”

“It's too late, is what it is. Bedtime already,” Aziraphale snapped, and got to his feet with an exasperated huff. “I'd been looking forward to it all week.”

Crowley yawned hugely and knuckled his eye. “So? You've seen the whole thing anyway. Look, if you really want to watch it again so much, I bet I can find it on Youtube. How about I...”

“Oh, computers,” Aziraphale cried. “Everything's on the bloody computer these days.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “And your point is...?”

“If this is some underhanded scheme to get me to plug into one of those... those waterways, you are sadly mistaken.”

With another huff, Azirphale turned his back on Crowley's confused frown and stormed off to bed.

He changed into his pajamas and yanked the bedclothes up to his ears, overwhelmed with self-pity. He knew he was sulking like a child, but he was just so tired.

“I think you mean streaming,” Crowley said, coming into the room. “And you really think letting you nod off in front of the telly was some evil scheme?” He chuckled. “What is with you today? I haven't fallen off that badly.”

“Do tell,” Aziraphale muttered, feeling angry and too hot and foolish. He knew it was called 'streaming', he wasn't an idiot, but in the heat of the moment he'd forgotten.

Just as he'd forgotten that he'd planned on not going to bed at all tonight, but here he was, stuck under the covers.

There was a snap of fingers as Crowley did something, and then the bed dipped behind Aziraphale as Crowley crawled in next to him. He scooted closer to line himself up against Aziraphale's back, and Aziraphale knew without looking that he was naked.

He slipped his arm around Aziraphale's side, running a languid hand over his chest. “You've been in a snit all day. How about we take some of that edge off, eh? Take your mind off whatever's got your knickers in a...”

A sudden bloom of pain as Crowley's palm brushed over a sensitive nub.

“OW!” Aziraphale nearly screamed it. He shoved off the offending hand, clutching at his shirtfront to pull it away from the throbbing. “You scratched me.”

Crowley was wide-eyed and startled. “I barely touched you.”

“Everything has one solution, eh? Just a quick tumble will put it to rights, then off to sleep, I suppose,” Aziraphale spat, seething. “I sleep entirely too much anyway, thanks to you, and in any case I don't see how I can achieve that blessed state with you pawing at me all the time, whenever there's...where are you going?”

Crowley flung back the covers and rose to his feet with a snarl. “What, I need permission to leave the room now, is that it?”

He snapped his fingers and became fully clothed. “I'm going out,” he growled, flicking sunglasses out of his pocket and snapping them on. “I'll be back when you're less mental.”

“Oh, I like that,” Aziraphale cried at his retreating back. “Mental, indeed. Fine. Go then!”

He yanked the covers up to his ears.

Suddenly the top blanket was tugged sharply out of his grip.

“I'm taking this with me,” Crowley sneered.

Aziraphale surged up with a cry of outrage and grabbed at the trailing end but Crowley was already across the room and heading into the hall.

“You gave that to me!” Aziraphale shouted.

“Tough!”

Aziraphale sat up in bed, breathing heavily, his fists balled in the remaining covers in case Crowley snuck back and tried to make off with any more of them.

Crowley made as much noise as demonically possible stomping down the stairs and through the shop, then the front door slammed with a jarring crash, there was the distant roar of the Bentley, a squealing of tires, and then silence.

Well! The cheek.

Aziraphale curled up in the bed, beyond furious.

Tears of resentment stung his eyes. He scrubbed them away, and was alarmed by how much his hand shook. It took several deep breaths to regain a modicum of control, and remorse slowly reared its head, replacing the rage.

And he was still too bloody hot. He kicked aside the blankets and lay on his back, huffing at the ceiling. His stomach was acting up again, his nipples were two dull spots of ache, and he felt so tired. If it weren't for that bloody awful row he could easily have gone to sleep.

Cataloging the subtle aches that built up over the past few weeks caused him to frown. It was really very strange. Sore feet and eye strain and occasional stomach upsets from bad food or unsanitary water, or from getting roaring drunk for that matter, were all things he'd dealt with in his long millenia of having a physical corporation, but these new-sprung discomforts were different in a way that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He'd had this corporation for ages, he couldn't think of any reason why it should be acting up now.

Oh. But it wasn't his old corporation. That had been destroyed when he was pulled up to Heaven so unexpectedly.

_This_ corporation was actually new, only a few years old, a gift from the Antichrist.

For the first time he wondered if there was something wrong with it. Just as the bookshop was ever so slightly different, and included certain volumes of literature that Aziraphale never would have collected on his own, perhaps there was some unseen flaw in his corporation that was only now beginning to manifest.

Adam had had an awful lot on his mind at the time, perhaps he hadn't got something quite right. Entirely without meaning to, naturally, but still.

Aziraphale sat up. This needed some exploration. And tea would help, an herbal one, chamomile, perhaps.

His stomach wobbled unpleasantly as he put on his slippers and padded out to the kitchen, so he collected a package of crackers out of the cupboard, and for a moment self-pity reared its head again. It just wasn't fair, being unable to enjoy his usual foods and comforts.

He brewed the tea, letting the steam from the cup rise up to caress his face, then he sat at the table, placed his hands in his lap, and went inward.

His consciousness moved through his bloodstream. He might as well make a thorough job of it, to see how things were going. Everything seemed to be in order, the body humming along as it should, brain and spinal column, nerve endings firing away. He entered the bones of his face, sank through the throat and into the shoulders, into the chest, the lungs and pumping heart, marvelling anew at the human body, this wondrous creation of God's, how exquisite Her work...

His consciousness sank lower, kidneys, stomach, liver, blood vessels, noting that all the organs were working properly, and sank still lower, into his pelvis, quite a good Effort if he did say so himself, a perfect set of female sexual organs, which...

He shot onto his feet with a gasp. His womb. _Oh my God..._

There was no mistaking the tiny spark within him.

“I'm pregnant,” he whispered, and fell back into the kitchen chair again.

\- - - - -

The soft creaks of the old building settled around him while he sat stunned into immobility.

Pregnant.

Never in his wildest imaginings...

His hand came to rest over his belly.

There would be a child, his and Crowley's.

As one for whom there was little to anchor him to reality, he reached for the teacup. Cold.

He got up and paced a few steps toward the phone, thinking that he ought to call Crowley, but he was probably halfway to Inverness by now, as angry as he was.

He couldn't imagine talking to Crowley about this over the phone in any case. Crowley'd probably turned his phone off, anyway. Not that Aziraphale blamed him.

He set about brewing a fresh cup of tea.

This required thought. A lot of thought.

What to do, what to do...

It was astounding. It was incredible, and oh God, he never believed he could simultaneously feel such terror and happiness at the same time.

Such wonder, such...

He shook his head sharply and dug his fingernails into his palm. Idiotic sentiment, he couldn't sit around just...just indulging in a bunch of mollycoddling emotions.

Only two options, really.

To keep this...condition, or not.

Light-headed, he groped for the nearest kitchen chair and dropped into it.

He could miracle this away. Miracle away the reproductive organs in their entirety, and the potential nestled within the womb.

One little miracle, and Crowley needn't even know.

A stab of shame pierced him, and he covered his face with his hands. How cowardly, how dishonest. To even think it. To even consider not telling Crowley, what a terrible thing to contemplate.

Was this something Crowley would even want?

He struggled to imagine his beloved's reaction, and unfortunately was able to think up several scenarios, none of them pleasant. Crowley angry all over again, furious, beyond exasperated by Aziraphale's carelessness, there was sure to be more shouting.

Two tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes and he was unable to keep back a sob. He gave into it for a minute or two, crying into a napkin left on the table, then wiped his eyes and nose.

These hormones, my goodness, they wreaked absolute havoc on a person. Did angels have hormones? He supposed so. It would certainly explain his moodiness lately. He blushed to think of how often he'd snapped at Crowley, but at least it made sense now, the exhaustion, the queasiness, the off taste of the tea...

Oh, damn and blast, he'd forgotten the tea again.

Glumly he took a sip, but it had gone cold, and was oversteeped now, besides, and too bitter.

He would just have to wait until his beloved demon cooled down and came back.

\- - - -

As the hours dragged on into morning, it brought light and life back to the city, and a cooling breeze from the north. The heat wave was at last loosening its grip.

For lack of anything better to do, Aziraphale walked to the nearest chemist's and spent some time picking out an assortment of pregnancy tests, choosing six. It earned him a passing glance from the cashier but he simply had no energy left for either embarrassment or indignation. It wasn't her business anyway.

Back in the flat above the shop, he wrinkled his nose at the instructions. He really had to urinate on these little sticks? He could produce urine, if needed, to maintain the impression of being human, though he didn't particularly care for it.

Eventually the messy business was completed, and every one of the little plastic sticks indicated a positive pregnancy, each cheerily sporting two blue lines. Well, he hadn't expected anything different.

He arranged them neatly in a line on the bathroom counter, unsure of what to do with them. They were unsanitary, now, he should throw them away, but perhaps Crowley would want to see them?

There seemed little point in doing anything. He was, in a way, in limbo, his life on pause until Crowley came back, though he knew that wasn't really true. A massive sea-change was taking place, and ignoring it wouldn't stop time's relentless march towards his own personal Armageddon, except this time there wasn't really any reason to...end it.

He rubbed his hands together, swaying back and forth. It was the anticipation, the dreadful weight of a time-sensitive decision that could not be put off for very long, and in truth he'd made his decision already, but if he didn't speak it aloud just yet it was less real, somehow.

Knowing that he would be dragging Crowley into this whole business sent a wave of misery through him.

He dreaded another fight, and maybe this would be too much for the demon.

Aziraphale was too needy, too demanding, and definitely too moody as of late, and now he'd be even more of a burden.

Crowley was always doing things for him, even the most difficult of tasks and errands, sometimes with an air of casualness so as to preserve his own sense of coolness, sometimes complaining the entire time but doing it anyway, but Aziraphale felt that this situation would somehow be the last straw, using up Crowley's seemingly endless capacity for kindness. There had to be limits.

Aziraphale couldn't take Crowley's goodwill for granted. Not for this. How could he expect Crowley to be pleased? It was too much to expect of him.

What was the phrase? 'Signed up for?' Yes, Crowley hadn't signed up for this.

The low growl of the Bentley as it parked illegally in front of the bookshop reached his ears.

Aziraphale's heart leapt in his chest and set up a wild pounding. “God give me strength,” he whispered.

He hurried down the stairs of the flat and into the backroom of the shop, hovering by the couch. When he leaned over and craned his neck to look past the shelves, he could just see Crowley through the window, bending over to take something out of the Bentley.

Aziraphale hastily straightened out the couch cushions, stacked up the pile of magazines Crowley left on the coffee table, patted at his clothes, then grabbed hold of the back of the couch to stop fidgeting.

He braced himself for an angry demon giving him the cold shoulder, a miffed Crowley striding in to demand an apology.

An enormous bouquet of red and pink roses came around the corner, followed by Crowley, with the tartan fleece blanket folded neatly over one arm.

The bouquet caught briefly on the lintel with a rustling and the loss of a couple of petals. Crowley freed it with a bitten-back curse and staggered into the room. He cleared his throat. “These are for you, angel. I...”

He swallowed, then snatched at his sunglasses and fumbled them into an inner pocket, juggling the roses from one arm to the next. “Trimmed my nails, too, they must've got a bit rough.” He extended his blanketed arm. “Brought back the...”

The room went blurry from the tears flooding Aziraphale's eyes.

Crowley exclaimed and darted forward to grab hold of Azirphale's elbows, while Aziraphale covered his face and wept.

“Steady on, angel, it's all right,” Crowley said, sounding thoroughly alarmed. “Just a little tiff.”

A little tiff. Oh, if only he knew. Aziraphale pressed his hands into his eyes. Sobs shook him while Crowley murmured comforting words and stroked his arms, guiding him to sit on the couch with his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders.

As the tremors left him, exhausted and spent, he accepted a glass of water, which Crowley got up to get from the kitchen, so rattled that he didn't think to use a miracle, or perhaps he wanted to give Aziraphale a moment to collect himself.

Aziraphale wiped his face with a handkerchief. “I've been an absolute beast.”

Crowley gave a brief, eloquent shrug. “Nah. 'S'nothing, really. How often have you put up with my moods, eh?”

Aziraphale twisted the handkerchief in his hands. “I need to tell you something.”

“That I'm glorious and amazing?”

A laugh was startled out of Aziraphale. Crowley was always so wonderful at defusing tension. He sobered. Crowley wouldn't be so cheerful soon.

He licked his lips. “The truth of the matter is, there's a reason I've been... What I mean to say is, there have been changes that...”

He stammered to a halt, the words sticking in his throat. Crowley's face was carefully blank, and Aziraphale realized he was going to have to stop dithering.

He took a shallow breath, the most he could do with his stomach abruptly deciding to try to rise up again. “It seems that I am with child.”

Rarely had the phrase 'great booming silence' been more apt. He didn't think he'd ever seen Crowley so absolutely dumbfounded, not since their first meeting on the wall of Eden.

The shock, the wide eyes, the slow dawning of comprehension so that his jaw fell open and stayed there.

“With child,” Crowley repeated. “As in, 'great with child?' You're pregnant?”

Aziraphale nodded, completely wretched. “I've been so careless, I'm so sorry, I should have realized the danger. I've manifested female genitalia in the past, I wanted to be thorough, you understand, and, well, fully functional ovaries and fallopian tubes and whatnot simply seemed to be part of the package, as it were, and it wasn't as if I ever participated in sexual intercourse before with anyone.”

He gulped hard, feeling tears choking him again. “The fact remains I should have thought of it. I've been so foolish. It simply never occurred to me that this might happen, but it should have, you're so virile and...”

“Hey, come on, now. None of that,” Crowley interrupted, reaching for him. Aziraphale hadn't realized he'd clenched his hands into fists in his lap until Crowley touched them.

Gently he worked open one of Aziraphale's fists so that he could hold his hand properly. “You didn't exactly get into this by yourself. Bloody hell, angel, I never gave it a thought, either.”

He rubbed his hands gently with his thumbs and Aziraphale sniffed and took a few more unnecessary breaths, then, his own handkerchief having gotten rather soaked, accepted a tissue Crowley handed him to wipe his face.

Crowley was still leaning toward him on the couch, and he wanted to curl up into Crowley's chest and stay there for the rest of eternity, but he didn't. The discussion wasn't over yet, and his thoughts were spinning.

At least Crowley hadn't snarled in rage and stormed out again, as Aziraphale feared in his worst imaginings, and that was a comfort.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said quietly.

His lifted his eyes.

“Do you want this?” Crowley said. “Whatever your decision, I'll stand by it.”

“Well, it's an awfully big change. I'm not sure I would want to burden you.”

“Sod that. Do you want this?”

“I mean, it affects both of us, every aspect of our lives. Nothing will be the same.” Aziraphale wasn't sure what he was aiming for. Trying to give Crowley an out?

Crowley waited until he stammered into silence. “Do you want this, Aziraphale?” he asked quietly.

Aziraphale had been doing nothing but fretting about it, teetering on an unknown brink, but with Crowley there, steady as a rock, he was at last strong enough to give voice to his decision.

“Yes.”

Crowley's face expanded into the most incandescent, glorious smile and Aziraphale's own heart all but burst with happiness as his beloved demon pulled him into a fierce hug.

“Oh my God, angel, oh my God,” Crowley gasped.

Aziraphale laughed damply against his shoulder, crying again, goodness, and he didn't have the heart to call Crowley out on his exclamation.

At last they pulled back from each other and Crowley got to his feet. “You need anything? Are you hungry? I'll get you something to eat. Or cold? It's blessed cold in here,” he said, taking the tartan blanket from the floor and tucking it around Aziraphale's shoulders.

“Dearest, I'm fine, it's all right,” Aziraphale said, trying not to chuckle. Crowley looked so fretful, the poor dear. “Please don't fuss so.”

Crowley dropped back onto the couch and dragged a hand through his hair. exhaling heavily. “Can hardly believe it. You sure you don't need anything?”

“Well, I...I think I just need you right now,” Aziraphale said, placing a hand tentatively on Crowley's knee. “Can we go to bed?” Tiredness had fallen away from him and he was flooded with delight, and love, and desire.

Crowley looked down. “Ah.” He covered Aziraphale's hand with his own. “Really, angel? At a time like this?” He lifted an eyebrow, and Aziraphale could swear that even the eyebrow was smirking.

“Unless you don't...don't want to,” Aziraphale murmured, pulling his hand back.

Crowley seized his hand back. “Hold on, I didn't say that,” he said quickly. He tilted his head. “It's not your insane hormones talking? Or you feel like you have to make it up to me or something?”

“I don't have insane hormones,” Aziraphale muttered, though he wasn't all that sure, actually.

Crowley gave his hand a squeeze and his gaze flickered downward to somewhere around Aziraphale's midsection. “It won't...disrupt anything, d'you think?”

“I shouldn't think so.”

“Half a sec.” Crowley pulled out his phone and tapped away on it.

In a conscious effort to be patient, Aziraphale refrained from commenting on Crowley's habit of leaping onto the internet at the slightest opportunity, and busied himself with finding a vase large enough for the roses.

And indeed, after only a few minutes of google-surfing or whatever it was, Crowley declared that sexual intercourse shouldn't have any bearing on pregnant individuals, barring any other health concerns.

\- - - - - -

In the bedroom they closed the shades to block out the bright sunlight and came together.

Crowley took him apart carefully, reverently, but when his tongue darted out to lave over a nipple, Aziraphale gasped at the sensation.

Crowley backed off. “Sorry, sorry, I forgot.”

“No, no, that was...all right. More than all right.” Most extraordinary, the addition of a little moisture combined with the gentlest pressure sent a most delicious shiver coursing through him.

“I'll just carry on, then, shall I?” Crowley said, eyes gleaming.

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley did indeed carry on, stroking and kneading, and it needed little more urging for Aziraphale to open his legs for him.

Crowley took his cock in hand and slid the head of it over the wetness of Aziraphale's folds, eliciting heartfelt moans.

“So eager for it,” Crowley whispered, braced above him as he moved against him, pushed inside him. He lay his long frame over Aziraphale, hips rocking into him, the links of his neck chain resting cool on Aziraphale's skin, softly clinking.

Crowley always treated him with such care, giving him whatever he needed, whether in bed or out, how could Aziraphale not respond in kind?  
“You're so kind to me, so good,” Aziraphale whispered as he stroked his shoulders, his back.

Crowley's eyes, yellow from corner to corner, gleamed in the soft dark of the room. “Of course,” he said. “You're my angel.”

“I wish I could care for you half so well,” he said mournfully. “Instead of burdening you with...”

“None of that now,” Crowley said, gently but firmly, a hint of growl in his voice. He stroked Aziraphale's hair, cupping the shape of his head. “I don't want to hear any talk of burdens.

“You've given me everything, Aziraphale, everything I ever could have wished for,” he said. “Every day on this good green Earth with you is a gift. Things I didn't even know I needed, you've given me. If there's anything I can do to make you happy, I'll do it gladly, rejoicing.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, feeling tears welling up again, humbled and moved by Crowley's poetry. A tear slipped out anyway and Crowley bent down to kiss it away.

Aziraphale lost himself to the rhythm, shuddering with pleasure at the rocking of Crowley's body, clenching around him, matching his thrusts, and ran his hands over Crowley's braced arms and taut shoulders, the strong sinewy shape of him.

He drew his knees a little higher. Crowley raised himself up and slipped a hand between them to brush the pad of his thumb over Azirpahale's wet, swollen clit.

Aziraphale groaned and tensed, the contrast between Crowley's slowly thrusting cock and the rapid moving of his thumb over Aziraphale's most sensitive spot brought him higher and higher, warmth and pressure growing in his belly, until all of it focused into a cascade of pleasure that had him rocking his hips helplessly into Crowley's touch.

He cried out. Crowley stroked him through his climax until his shudders lessened.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley braced against the mattress and picked up the pace, Aziraphale's whimpers and moans spurring him on, driving him to a near frenzy.

Aziraphale wrapped his legs around Crowley's narrow waist, relishing the power in those lean muscles, welcoming him into his body until Crowley's breathing grew harsh and he tensed against Aziraphale with a groan, his head pressing into Aziraphale's neck.

Aziraphale held him close, and they lay entwined for several minutes, exchanging little kisses and gentle strokes.

Crowley rolled off him to lie on his back, pulling Aziraphale along to rest his head on Crowley's chest.

“That was so wonderful, darling.”

“'Course. Only the best for you. Say, here's a thought...Are you going to breastfeed? Grow some titties?”

Aziraphale scoffed and clucked his tongue at Crowley's snickers. “Don't be so crude. If I do, it'll be entirely for the benefit of the baby, you fiend.”

“You wouldn't be so cruel as to deny me, would you?” One long-fingered hand caressed Aziraphale's chest, gently cupped the flesh. “Give me a little more to play with.”

“That depends on how well you behave yourself.”

He felt all bubbly inside and wiggled closer into Crowley's side, giving him a squeeze. “Oh, Crowley, I'm so excited. I know the perfect treatise that will assist us in this endeavor, by Aelius Galenus, he...”

“Galenus!” Crowley exclaimed. “That's ancient. For Sa- somebody's sake, angel, he thought people'd get rickets if their phlegm was out of balance.”

“Ridiculous, he wrote no such thing.”

“Always blathering on about the humors and...and phlegm.”

“Yes, you've said.”

“And he thought the baby-growing period lasted ten months. Doesn't sound like such a genius to me.”

“He might have been mistaken on that fact, but he was the leading authority in his day, and I have a copy of his treatise right downstairs.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Look, if we're doing this by the book, let's get some more modern ones. Something published this century? Please?”

Aziraphale didn't see why they should bother when child-bearing itself remained essentially unchanged, it was human tastes that dictated procedures and cultural happenings, but he was mollified by the fact that Crowley was willing to look to books for guidance, and so he demurred from extending the argument.

But he would definitely do some cross-referencing between these 'modern' books and the good old stand-bys.

“What do you think she'll look like? Maybe she'll have your red hair, oh that would be so precious.”

“So it's a girl, is it?”

“Without a doubt.” Aziraphale nodded firmly.

“Bet she'll be a little monster.”

“You bite your tongue. She will not. She'll be an...”

“An angel?” Crowley smirked against his hair. “Only half.”

Aziraphale sifted his fingers through Crowley's chest hairs, feeling he ought to confess. Here in the quiet of their room, in Crowley's arms, it was safe enough. “I thought about... not having it, Crowley. Do you think that makes me...not steadfast?”

Crowley stroked his arm for a few moments. “I think it's normal to have thoughts like that, some doubts. You had to think about it, yeah? To consider all options, in order to reach your conclusion.”

“I'm frightened, Crowley,” he whispered. “I certainly hope I'm up for the task, but I don't know if I am.”

Crowley nuzzled at his hair. “Hey. Aziraphale. Look at me.”

Aziraphale met his yellow gaze.

“You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think,” he said solemnly.

“Oh, it's Milne,” Aziraphale hiccuped, feeling all teary again. He dashed at his eyes and lay down on his side. Silly to be comforted by the writer of Winnie the Pooh of all things, but he was, nevertheless. “I don't want to be a burden.” He bit his lip, chagrined that he'd already forgotten Crowley didn't want to hear any talk of being a burden.

“Excuse me,” Crowley said in mock-outrage, leaning up on his elbow. “You think I'm not strong enough to carry you and the little rugrat? I beg to differ. Look at these arms. I used to wrestle, you know. I'll prove it right now.”

Ignoring Aziraphale's undignified shriek, he flung aside the covers and shoved his arms under Aziraphale's shoulders and knees, scooping him up.

“There, y'see?” Crowley grinned, triumphant, walking him around the room.

“All right, all right, I believe you!” Aziraphale giggled, clinging to his neck.

Abruptly his stomach rumbled, embarrassingly loud, making them both start.

“Have you eaten, angel?” Crowley asked with a worried frown as he set Aziraphale on his feet. “Wait. This is why you haven't been eating lately, isn't it? Do you feel sick?”

Aziraphale shook his head and placed a hand on his belly. The nausea had ebbed and he felt absolutely famished.

He brightened. “Crowley, I'm hungry. I'm really hungry, isn't that marvellous?”

“Yeah, angel, it is.” Crowley's smile was fond.

“Oh, I simply must have something before the nausea comes back,” Aziraphale declared, reaching for his robe, then paused. “Only I haven't showered yet...and what time is it? Oh dear, it's after noon already. Should we have luncheon or...”

Crowley squeezed his shoulders and gave him a peck on the temple. “Give me thirty seconds to clean up a bit, angel, then you can shower, and I'll take care of the meal."

"I'll put the kettle on." Aziraphale beamed.

He was at the kitchen sink adding water to the kettle, when Crowley's voice floated out from the bathroom. "Uh, angel?"

"Yes, darling?"

"We're having just the one kid, right?"

Azirpahale clapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh, that's right."

He hurried into the bathroom, where Crowley was looking askance at the line-up of pregnancy tests on the counter. Aziraphale pressed his fingers to his lips, trying not to giggle.

"I may have overdone the testing just a smidge," Aziraphale said once he got a hold of himself, primly smoothing down his robe.

"Thank fuck for that," Crowley muttered. "Testing _me_ , feels like." He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders for a sideways hug. "Give me grey hairs one of these days."

Aziraphale hugged him back, his cheeks hurting from smiling so much. "But you can handle it, dearest. I have faith in you." He frowned thoughtfully. "Although it strikes me that, after the first one, there's really no reason why we can't have another."

"Aaargh, angel, my heart! My grey hairs. Please, I'm begging you," Crowley pleaded.

Aziraphale took mercy on him and refrained from any further teasing, because one baby on the way was quite enough to be concerned with.

For the time being.


End file.
